Favourite Line
by NorthernTrash-x
Summary: Ikkaku/Izuru. Because sometimes you need someone to listen to the things you are not saying.


Because I get annoyed that people seem to think that Ikkaku is incapable of anything but stupidity and that Kira is an emotional wreck.

Ikkaku x Izuru

_And we all seem to need the help  
of someone else  
to mend that shelf of too many books  
Read me your favourite line  
_Damien Rice

**Poetry**

It had been a strange day.

He had woken up late, which never happened (not because he was naturally prompt, but because Yachiru had a habit of jumping on him early in the day). Because of this, he had missed breakfast and had turned up late for work, only to find that Yumichika had already done his paperwork for the day in a previously unknown show of generosity.

And all he had done, upon seeing Ikkaku, was to roll his eyes and tut, without any bitching whatsoever.

Highly unusual.

Kenpachi had taken Yachiru hunting for the day, and after an hour of getting under Yumichika's feet his friend had shooed him out of the office, leaving him with the rest of the day to kill.

So he spent some time kicking the arses of his subordinates, because it had been pretty busy recently with that whole Aizen ditching the Soul Society and starting an evil army shit, and he wanted to make sure that none of them were getting lazy with no one keeping an eye on them.

Then he had a drink, and ate some food, and had another drink. Then he had a lengthy training session, pushing every muscle in his body and shattering several training dummies in the process, and after that soaked himself in the bath house, which had felt rather glorious.

It was when he was walking back from his soak that he had seen Kira.

There were piles of boxes in the street, stacked up against the wall, in all different sizes. He had only given it a cursory glance as he had gone past it on the way to the baths, but this time Kira was lifting a box off the pile, and he slowed to a stop.

Well, that was weird.

He didn't know the Lieutenant all that well, in honesty. He'd come out drinking with them a few times, dragged out by Renji or Hisagi, but Ikkaku had never had much of a reason to exchange words with him. He had always seemed reserved, cautious. It was if he was wary of all people around him, unwilling to let them get too close, and so Ikkaku had never bothered to try.

But it looked like it was just him, and there were a hell of a lot of boxes.

He raised a hand to greet him as Kira came back out of the house.

"What are you doing?"

Kira nodded in response, the frown not leaving his face. "Moving."

Ikkaku blinked.

All shinigami were offered barrack lodgings within their division headquarters, and it was rare for a person to turn that down. Ikkaku didn't know a single top ranking shinigami that didn't live in house, let alone a Lieutenant.

And this place, it was clear to see, was not the third division.

But Ikkaku did not question why Kira was moving house, because that was the kind of person he was. It wasn't his business, even if he was curious: if Kira wanted to tell him, or if Yumichika found out and just happened to pass on the information, then that would be another thing.

They stared at each other, for a moment longer. He realised that Kira was expecting him to leave.

But he couldn't.

Ikkaku rubbed the back of his head.

"I… erm… would you like a hand?"

Kira shook his head, and bowed a little.

"I appreciate it, but do not worry. I can manage by myself."

On any other day, he would have just shrugged, and walked away, but today had been an unusual day, and he was feeling good. Ikkaku eyed the pile of boxes. It would take Kira a good few hours to get it all inside by himself.

He looked back at Kira, who was already hefting a large suitcase in his arms.

Starting at him now, he could see that the normally unflappable Lieutenant looked stressed. There was a very faint flush gracing his face, and several hairs were skewed in his normally impeccable hair. There was a smudge of something underneath his chin, and as Kira looked up, and nodded goodbye to him, he was faced with the dark shadows underneath his eyes.

He sighed.

He couldn't help it, he was a soft touch.

Shaking his head, he picked up a box, ignoring Kira's curious stare and mild protests, elbowing his way past him and up the stairwell.

Kira called up after him.

"Thank you."

He just grunted in response.

They worked in companionable silence for the next hour or so, until every box was inside. He couldn't help but wonder why there was no one else here helping Kira: members of his division, or friends like Renji and Hisagi, who Ikkaku knew would always have been willing to lend a hand.

He resolved to mention it to Yumichika later, to see if his friend had anything to comment.

Many of the boxes were ridiculously heavy, straining not to fall apart with their load, and he wondered what was in them. He himself had very few personal possessions: all he owned, now he thought about it, would fit into one bag, thrown over his shoulder. All his furniture and furnishings were standard issue division items. Kira seemed to have his own. An antique writing table stood at an angle in the middle of the main room, and a pair of soft leather armchairs lay on the floor, like beetles on their backs.

Ikkaku frowned. An unpacked house has a strange feel to it, personal items surrounded by impersonal boxes, contradicting each other. Kira began to root through boxes in the small kitchen.

"Would you like some tea, Madarame-san?"

He moved to another box when it became clear that the tea things were not to be found.

"Don't worry about it, Kira. I've, err, got to be going anyway."

He didn't, but he suddenly felt awkward, surrounded by the paraphernalia of another man's life. He was flushed with guilt as Kira bowed low to him.

"Thank you, Madarame-san. I hope I can offer you tea another day, when I am a little better prepared."

Ikkaku nodded awkwardly, and slipped out of the door.

* * *

It was over a week before he saw Kira again.

This time he hadn't had so good a day. The Captain Commander had demanded all the budget and recruitment reports, and it had been left up to him to complete them, despite the fact that they were supposed to be the work of the Captain and Lieutenant. He'd tried to pass it off onto Yumichika, but he had just tossed his hair and drunk Ikkaku's coffee, bitching as he did so about Ikkaku's lack of responsibility. Then Yachiru had wanted to play tag, and now four members of his division had been hospitalised, and he had a fractured rib and a black eye, which was already starting to swell up.

He kicked a rock on the street, wishing the day would hurry up and end.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, and he was delaying returning to his division, where piles of paperwork were waiting for him, if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, Yachiru would have woken up from her nap. The division would already have ravaged the canteen, so there would be nothing decent left to eat: all in all, not much to go back to.

So he was walking the long way back to the division, bitching in his head, when he heard a voice calling him.

"Madarame-san!"

He turned, expecting a shinigami delivering more unwanted news, only to find Kira raising a hand to him.

"Tea?"

Ikkaku didn't really want tea, but Kira was staring at him, watching with those careful, wary eyes that never normally let anyone in, and for a moment he looked entirely vulnerable. It made something knot in his chest, and he groaned in his head.

"Sure."

He followed Kira down the street towards his new house, keeping a step behind him. The front of the house, when they reached it, was much improved now a lifetime's worth of boxes were not stacked in front of it. The inside looked much better as well.

It was not a large house. The downstairs was one room, an open plan living space and kitchen, but it looked much larger now the furniture had been righted and most of the boxes unpacked. His antique desk was in the nook, underneath the window, and the leather chairs sat on either side of an enamelled table. The kitchen was fully unpacked, utensils slotted neatly in storage jars, tea set laid out as if he had been expecting company.

The only boxes left unpacked were leaning against the wall, alongside a pile of wooden planks that looked as if they were supposed to be slotted together.

"Please, sit."

Ikkaku glanced at the armchairs, and then at the sofa opposite. The fabric on both of them was straightened to a military degree, as if no one had ever sat on them.

He opted to stand.

He wandered over to the desk as Kira started to prepare the tea. His pen and notepaper were set at exact angles, his inkwell free of drips. It was clean in that way that did not suggest they were regularly cleaned, but used too frequently to ever accumulate mess or dirt.

Two frames rested on the windowsill, and in contrast to his desk were already starting to collect dust, as if they were ignored most of the time.

One showed a young Kira standing between two people that he could only assume were his parents. He had his father's eyes, Ikkaku couldn't help but notice. He looked about eight or nine, and already had a serious expression on his young face. His high cheekbones were the image of his mothers.

The second showed Kira standing between Renji and Momo, in their Academy uniforms. Momo was linking arms with both of the young men, smiling broadly at the camera. Renji was laughing, as if someone had just told an exceptionally amusing joke.

Kira was looking at both of them in the photograph. He was so much younger looking, his hair short and his face open.

It was his expression though, that made Ikkaku stare.

He was smiling at the two of them, with such warmth and affection. His eyes were open, and there was just so much… happiness there. It made something in Ikkaku's chest clench. It made him want to see Kira smile like that again.

"Tea."

He nodded, still staring at the photograph.

"You looked good with short hair."

He turned just in time to see the look of shock on Kira's face before it was smoothed out into his normal expression.

He lowered himself gingerly onto the pristine sofa, wincing at the thought of how he would mess it up, and watched Kira pour the tea. His eyes were drawn back to the unopened boxes.

He took a sip, and winced as it burnt his tongue.

"What's left to unpack?"

"Books."

Ikkaku raised an eyebrow. "And the planks?"

"Bookshelf."

"Right."

* * *

He was surprised himself when he walked into the bar, three days later, to see that Kira had been dragged along by Renji to join them. That strange tightening in his chest seemed to constrict again, and he waved a hand feebly at their table as he walked up to the bar, immediately hating himself for such a ridiculous gesture.

Kira nodded at him as he took his seat, and he leaned back in his chair and listened to the inconsequential argument Iba and Renji were having for a while. Hisagi would chip in every once in a while with a joke or a comment, but Ikkaku found that his eyes kept getting dragged back to Kira.

Eventually Iba left for the bar and there was a lull in the conversation, and Ikkaku cleared his throat, feeling suddenly nervous.

"Have you had a chance to put up all your books yet, Kira?"

Renji and Hisagi frowned at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Kira's face seemed to go entirely blank.

Ikkaku stared between the three friends at the table, bewilderment slowly turning into realisation.

Kira cleared his throat.

"I moved."

Hisagi looked outraged. "You _moved?_ Without telling us?"

Renji slammed his fist into the table. "What the hell, Kira?"

The Lieutenant just shrugged. "It was a last minute decision."

"Why did you move?"

Kira rolled his shoulders, as if trying to shift an ache. Ikkaku watched his expression carefully, but it was as blank as it ever was. He took so long to answer that they had almost given up on him.

"I… needed some distance."

Renji looked confused. "From what?"

If Hisagi could have reached him, he would have punched him.

"From my division."

No one had really felt comfortable talking to Kira about Aizen's betrayal in the few weeks since it had happened. Hisagi knew all too well the pain at discovering that the man you followed and idolised had turned on everything you believed in, but he had never been able to work out the ambiguous nature of Kira's relationship with his Captain. When Ichimaru had defected, Kira had just got on with things, without any fuss. His calm exterior deflected concerned questions.

Renji was still frowning.

"So… how does Ikkaku know you moved?"

Kira shrugged. "He saw me in the street, and helped me with my boxes."

There was an awkward silence, and Ikkaku rolled his eyes. He could almost feel the overprotective waves of irritation radiating from Kira's two friends. He could understand. If Yumichika just upped and made some mad, huge decision and didn't tell him, but did tell Renji, he'd probably have been pretty pissed off too.

"But no, I have not put up my bookcase, yet."

It took him a moment to realise that Kira was talking to him, and he had to glance up from his drink quickly so that he would not think he was ignoring him.

"Why?"

Kira ducked his head again, and a bulb lit in Ikkaku's head.

* * *

The next day found him knocking on Kira's door in the evening, wondering if he was overstepping the mark in their barely-there friendship. He did not even know if he was correct in assuming that Kira did not know _how _to put up a bookshelf: it would be embarrassing as hell if he was wrong, and yet for some reason, here he was anyway.

Kira did not seem to look all that surprised when he opened the door, but Ikkaku was starting to realise that he let very few emotions show, regardless of how he actually felt. Once again he was struck with the desire to make Kira smile, just like he had in that photograph.

He held up a hammer in lieu of explanation when Kira shot him a quizzical glance.

"Thought I would come help, to make up for letting your secret out yesterday."

He frowned, but moved out of the way of the doorway so Ikkaku could enter.

"It wasn't a secret."

"Sure. Normally, when I move house, I don't bother to tell my oldest friends either. Standard proceedurel."

Kira folded his arms, but Ikkaku decided to use the Eleventh Divison's secondary strategy to any problem, which was to ignore it. (The primary was to kill it: if neither of those options worked, the third was always just to get drunk).

He started to assemble the bookcase. Between Kenpachi and Yachiru's proclivity for breaking things and Yumichika's constant desire to achieve aesthetic perfection he had more experience than he cared to admit at assembling furniture, and started slotting the pre-cut boards into place with ease.

After a few moments, he heard Kira sigh.

"I'll make some tea."

Ikkaku tried not to laugh.

"Do you have anything stronger?"

By the time Kira returned from the kitchen with a bottle of sake (the good kind, Ikkaku noticed, with proper sake dishes from a nice looking set) the first bookshelf was already finished, and Kira moved it to the position he wanted as Ikkaku continued with the second. That was done by the time the sake had been opened and poured, and was also shifted into position. The third, and last one, did not take much longer.

"Where do you want it?"

"By the desk, please."

Kira had forsaken the chairs for the floor, and had already opened a box of books when Ikkaku sat opposite him, slurping his sake as Kira flicked through a book before setting it aside. The next book was taken from the box, glanced at, and put aside as well.

"Thank you, Madarame-san."

He shifted uneasily. "Don't call me that. It's Ikkaku."

Kira nodded. "Then please, call me Izuru."

Ikkaku blinked. He wasn't sure he had even known Kira's first name before now: he wracked his brains to think if anyone called him it. No- even though he addressed Hisagi and Renji by their first names, they still only called him Kira.

"Alright, Izuru."

He liked the sound of it. No one else called him that.

He watched, idly, as Kira emptied one box, and moved to another. The piles he was making seemed to be at random, but then, what did he know?

"Why do you have so many?"

Kira glanced up.

"So many books? Because I like to read."

Ikkaku pulled a face, picking up a book at random. The text inside looked dense enough to drown in: he didn't understand how anyone would actually want to try and read it. Kira refilled his dish absentmindedly, and Ikkaku watched him in silence for a while.

When Kira spoke, it took him by surprise.

"I didn't tell them because I didn't want them to fuss."

He nodded, but did not say anything.

"They would have tried to convince me not to move."

There was another pause.

"Do you think you made the right choice?"

Kira nodded, slowly, and Ikkaku sat back, satisfied.

"Then fuck 'em."

The slight quirk of a smile, and Ikkaku thought he might have stopped breathing for a moment. He glanced quickly at the piles of books that were appearing between the two of them, noticing that most of them seemed to belong to the same genre.

"So what is it about poetry?"

Kira shrugged.

"It's honest."

He picked up a book, flicked through it until he found a specific section, and showed it to Ikkaku.

_I have seen the red rose burning  
and this means more_

He handed the book back to Izuru gingerly, wondering what to say, but there was already another book, another page, ready for him. He took it cautiously, as if expecting some kind of trap, or trick, but all that lay on the page were innocent words.

Well, words, at any rate.

_Moonlight making crosses  
on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one_

He didn't really understand.

He felt a prickle of heat under his skin, and looked up to see Izuru staring intently at him. He seemed to be searching for something in his face, and after a moment he sighed, as if giving in, and looked away.

"It doesn't make much sense."

Izuru's voice was dull, empty. He felt a flush of guilt, and couldn't help but wonder if this was the closest Izuru had let anyone in a very long time. He shook his head slightly.

"I'd like to see more."

And so Kira showed him a few more passages as he unpacked his books, and though Ikkaku could not claim to understand them, with each one the creases around Kira's eyes seemed to smooth a little, as if by showing someone these small pieces of his life he was releasing some terrible weight that he had been burdened with for the longest of times. The corner of his mouth would occasionally twitch as he found a new piece to show him, and Ikkaku found himself staring at it, at that tiny part of this unreadable man, as if there was nothing else in the world to stare at.

_Come in under the shadow of this red rock_

And then eventually Izuru began to read the lines out loud to him, even though all of the books had been unpacked now and were resting on the floor waiting to be shelved. The moon rose in the sky outside and neither of them went to turn on a light, so Ikkaku sat there in the growing dark, and listened, and wondered how difficult it was to ever truly know someone.

There was so much strange sadness about the lines Kira read.

And they kept drinking, and they were silent but for the those recited lines and occasional hums of approval or disapproval from Ikakku, his only commentary on them, and soon the bottle was empty, and a second was nearly gone, and Kira was propping himself up against the armchair and Ikkaku was lying on the floor staring up at him and his mouth and how it formed each and every strange, solitary word.

And his voice became quieter as the shadows deepened, quieter but stronger at the same time, and Ikkaku wondered at it all.

_If it is true that in every stone sleeps a crystal  
then in my grey boulder slumbers a sun_

"I like that," he said, and he meant it.

And then Kira smiled down at him, that real, _real_ smile, and it was as if some previously unknown fuse lit inside him, sparking in the darkness of the night. He had never seen a smile like that: the photograph had done it no justice, none at all.

But the long, quiet moment had ended, and Izuru's face quickly closed off again. The sake had given Ikkaku a headache that he had only just noticed, and he sat up.

"I should go."

Kira walked him to the door.

"Thank you, for your help."

Ikkaku hesitated in the doorway.

"Thanks, for… you know."

And Kira just stared at him, for a long silent moment, and nodded.

"You are welcome to come again, Ikkaku."

And he shut the door with Ikkaku just standing there, staring at him.

* * *

It took him a week to decide to go around again, and when he opened the door Kira's face registered no surprise. He just pulled the door open and invited him it wordlessly.

The books had all been put away now: they lined their shelves expectantly, staring back at Ikkaku as if they expected something from him. He found himself avoiding their stares, as if he were afraid of them.

"Tea."

It was less of a question this time, and more of a statement. Ikkaku nodded his thanks and watched Izuru as he set about boiling the water. Eventually he could not help himself though, and found his eyes being pulled back to the books.

Several of them, he found, had been marked with filing stickers, as if awaiting some kind of reference.

He pulled one of these marked books out at random, and found another inside, highlighting the importance of a particular page.

_Things are good as I am not dead yet_

He closed the book, and found that he was smiling.

The next few weeks passed in this way: Ikkaku would find himself wandering past Izuru's house of an evening, and would knock on the door.

He would be let in silently and tea would be made, the fragrant steam creating patterns in the air as he waited for it to cool. Sometimes they would have sake instead, and those visits would last much longer, later into the night.

He would pull the marked books from the shelf one by one and read from the page indicated: each time he went over new books had been marked, as if Izuru was going through his own collection, rereading every book methodically. Sometimes he would read the passage in his head: other times he would pass them to Izuru, who would read them aloud to him.

He preferred it when he could listen to Izuru speak.

The sound of his voice left him with that reoccurring tightening in his chest: he was starting to enjoy the feeling.

_We are here to drink beer.  
We are here to kill war.  
We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that death will  
tremble  
to take us._

He laughed, aloud, and Izuru paused.

"That one reminds me of you."

He laughed again.

"Thank you."

"I never used to care for it that much."

He rolled onto his side, head propped on his hand, resting on his elbow, staring up at Izuru. The other man stared back at him, his eyes calm and his face careful.

The sake bottle was empty, the moon was high in the sky. They had, once again, neglected to turn on the lights, but the porch screen was open and the moonlight shone through, bleaching the gold of Izuru's hair to silver.

Ikkaku felt and fought the urge to touch it.

"But opinions change."

Izuru was still staring at him, his eyes never wavering.

He reached out, and brushed the pad of his thumb across Izuru's lower lip. He left it there, and it was only when he eventually felt the warmth of air across his thumb that he realised Izuru had been holding his breath.

"You know..." Ikkaku almost shivered at Kira's voice. "You know, I knew how to put up the bookshelves."

He closed his eyes as Izuru drew the pad of his thumb over his lips and carefully grazed his teeth over it, biting it gently.

"I know."

There was a moment of complete and utter stillness, silence, and then he opened his eyes again, and all he could see were Izuru's eyes, watching him, Ikkaku's thumb still between his teeth.

And then he was being pulled upwards, Izuru's hands fisting in his uniform, and he pulled his thumb unceremoniously away from his mouth to replace it with his own, his hands in Izuru's hair pulling him roughly closer, books scattered around them.

Izuru kissed him as if he were trying to become him, trying to force his way through his skin to melt and merge the two of them together.

He felt as if he were about to die, and that it would be a glorious death.

His back was aching from the angle, and as he pulled Izuru down on top of him he found that the other shinigami had become pliable, his body willingly following. His body seemed to give off an impossible heat, like a furnace contained in skin, and he longed to press that skin to his own, nothing in between, to see what it would feel like.

And then Izuru was biting his lip, and pulling open his uniform, and then teeth were around the lean muscle of Ikkaku's neck and he felt undone, trying desperately to find a way under the tight folds of Izuru's uniform, and he would not admit that that noise- that soft, gentle moan- had just come from him.

A leg was pushing between his own, he was being pulled, so now he was sitting up, and their foreheads were against each other's and Izuru was still watching him, as if he was waiting for something to happen.

Why did he always do that, watch him so carefully?

He reached his hands up, and pushed Izuru's hair from his forehead with the palms of his hands.

And then it struck him, where he knew that look from, why it reminded him of something.

It was the way an animal watches another, when two run into each other in the wild. They wouldn't square off against each other, wouldn't run away: they would just freeze, and stare at each other.

Eyes wide, and perfectly blank.

Waiting.

And that's what Kira was doing: he was waiting to see when he would run away.

There was a strange vulnerability about Izuru's face, like this. There was the faint ridge of a permanent frown line that you couldn't normally see, and very fine lines like cobwebs at the corner of his eyes.

His eyes were grey; he didn't think he'd noticed that before.

Ikkaku wasn't sure what to say, so he just kissed him again.

His skin was warm.

It pressed against him urgently, most of their uniforms abandoned on the floor, left with the ruffled books and scattered post-it notes. He clung to every inch of skin that he found, pressing into the heat of it.

The heat sunk through his skin, warming his very bones.

Teeth returning again and again to his muscle, biting hard enough to feel it, but not hard enough to truly hurt. Izuru's back flat against the wall, every inch of them pressed together, friction, wonderful friction.

His sensibilities had left him: maybe at some point he could have stopped this, but not now, not now he knew the heat of this body, the press of this kiss. There was no way to leave it now.

Lost, he thought.

I'm lost.

The rest of their uniforms scattered, through the door to the bedroom, and now Izuru's legs were around his waist and Ikkaku could felt every line of muscle down his back, taut and lean.

His spine arched in the moonlight and Ikkaku ran his fingertips down every vertebrae, feeling every notch and whorl.

He could barely see him in the darkness, but he felt as if he had already mapped every inch of Izuru's body in his mind, as if he already knew it.

His hands had no time for subtleties. They palmed their way across the strangely familiar body quickly, pulling him closer, into the right position, hands never leaving him. He moved them into the same rhythm.

Izuru's mouth was insistent, kissing and biting and tasting, but at they found their rhythm together his hands moved slower, feeling every shallow ridge of scar tissue he could reach. He traced each one with the edge of his fingernail, feeling the fine hairs on Ikkaku's neck stand to attention.

It was warm, so warm.

Ikkaku wondered for a moment what he could hear, and then realised it was himself, whispering Izuru's name, over and over.

* * *

Most evenings you'll find Ikkaku wandering out of the Eleventh Division. It won't immediately appear that he is going to any place in particular. Sometimes he stops by a bar, other times just wander for a bit. Occasionally he'll go out into the Rukongai for something to eat, and bring something back with him.

But every time he ends up at the same place: at the door of an inconspicuous house in the Soul Society. He knocks, the same knock: three hard, impatient taps.

The door always opens, and lets him in.

And then he will drink tea, sometimes sake. When he brings food back with him they eat together: often there is food waiting for him.

They sit together: sometimes on the sofa, sometimes the bed, sometimes just the floor. Izuru might sit between Ikkaku's legs, resting his back against his chest, other times Ikkaku might lie with his head in Izuru's lap. It doesn't really matter.

They let the stillness ease their aches.

They let the moonlight balm them.

Izuru reads aloud, and Ikkaku listens.

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us  
These, our bodies, possessed with light.  
Tell me we'll never get used to it._


End file.
